Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

57 Andrew Street is a small, unassuming brick cottage. It sits by the side of a narrow, unpaved street in the modest suburb of Windsor, flanked by other modest, but attractive brick and weatherboard houses. Standing outside its front fence, pretty shrubs adorning the front lawn, it’s hard to believe that such a ghastly crime could have been committed inside.

But on Christmas Eve of last year, a crime the likes Melbourne had never seen was carried out inside the brick cottage. A man by the name of Frederick Bailey Deeming first fractured his wife’s skull with a battle-axe and then slashed her throat with a long-bladed knife. Afterwards, he dumped her naked body beneath the fireplace, filled in the grave with concrete he had mixed himself, and then covered the make-shift grave with the hearthstone. Her body wasn’t discovered for over two months.

It was the house’s owner, Mr. John Stamford of High Street, who first realised something was amiss.

“I was showing a prospective tenant through the house that day (3rd March). When we came to the first bedroom, there was a most disagreeable smell in the room. Not surprisingly, the lady left, and upon closer inspection of the room, I found that the hearthstone was raised, like it had been tampered with. I called my agent, and together Mr. Connop and I lifted the hearthstone. The smell grew worse. It was a most repugnant smell; it reminded me of dead flesh. Only this was worse. The smell seemed to burn my nostrils and scald my throat. I told my son to go and fetch the coppers, and once they arrived, it took them a couple of hours to uncover what lay in the concrete casing.”

Mr. Stamford, a solidly-built man in his forties, shook his head and his face blanched. “It was a sight and smell I’ll never forget.”

Neither will Constable Webster, one of the policemen who helped dig the body free from the concrete that evening in March. “I had to destroy the clothes and uniform I was wearing afterwards, as they were saturated with the stink of decayed flesh. I burnt them in the fireplace, but even that didn’t completely take away the smell. I think the stench will be permanently entrenched in my nose. The smell was so dreadful that I retreated from the house on a number of occasions, and I was still sick even after I arrived home. As for the body itself — well, let’s just say I will never forget its horrible, mummy-like state. I hadn’t seen anything like it before, and dear God I hope to never see anything like it again.”

“She had been down there for over two months,” Mr. Stamford said. “Two months! Can you imagine what she looked like? Just a mass of decayed flesh. Like one of those Egyptian mummies, only oozing slime. Christ, her hair and scalp came away from her skull while the coppers were digging out the body. The whole thing was just a disgusting, revolting mess.”

So what of the neighbours? What were their reactions upon hearing the ghastly news, and did they suspect anything strange of their new neighbour?

“I about fainted when I heard what had happened,” Irish-born Mrs. Fiddymont of 59 Andrew Street said. “My dear Owen had to catch me as I fell. I had never heard anything so dreadful in all my life.” Sitting at her kitchen table in the four-room weatherboard, Mrs. Fiddymont looks like everyone’s grandmother. She has a kind face, though her eyes as she recounts to me her memories take on a distressed look. “I only met Mr. Drewn a couple of times; his wife even less. She generally kept to herself. I met her only once, just after they had moved in. I was out the back hanging up the washing when she wandered outside. The fence separating our properties isn’t very high, so I could see the girl just fine. She had a sad way about her; not that she was upset or crying mind you, but she looked forlorn. I called out to her a couple of times before she turned to me. It was like she was lost in her own world. Anyway, I introduced myself, and asked her if she wanted to come over for some lemonade — it was hotter than the devil’s furnace at that time. She seemed taken aback by the offer, like she wasn’t sure what she should say. Before she answered, Mr. Drewn appeared at the back door and called her inside. That was the last time I saw the poor girl alive.” What of Mr. Deeming, or as she knew him, Mr. Drewn? “Never once did I suspect that the tall, dashing Englishman was capable of such horrible acts,” Mrs. Fiddymont answered with a huff. “He was always immaculately dressed, and polite. Although I do have to say, that on more than one occasion, I heard arguing coming from next door. It never seemed like much to me, just the usual marital spat, but still, I do remember hearing Mr. Drewn make numerous references to his mother, like she was living in the house with them, although I never saw an older woman in or about the premises. That did make me uneasy.”

Another neighbour, Louisa Atkinson, a washerwoman residing at no. 60 Andrew Street, also heard the couple quarrelling, and was probably the last to see Emily Williams (nee Mather) alive. “I was walking past the house at around 7pm on Christmas Eve, when I heard Mr. and Mrs. Drewn arguing. I stopped to listen — they were, after all, new to the neighbourhood and I was curious. After a few minutes of hearing them fighting, I heard a crash and shortly thereafter Mrs. Drewn came out the back door and started walking up and down the side path, like she was especially nervous. I told Emily that perhaps she should leave this place for a little while, but she simply smiled and said everything will be all right soon. I could tell she was frightened, but I thought it wasn’t any of my business, so I didn’t press the matter any further. I watched Mrs. Drewn return to the house, and that was the last time I saw her.”

Does Louisa know what they were arguing about? “It was something to do with a letter, that much I know. And about a woman named Kelly. I guess Mrs. Drewn thought her husband was having an affair with a woman named Kelly, or some such thing. I also heard Emily mention the police. I guess she never got around to calling them.”

When asked whether she was aware that one of the Ripper’s victims had a surname of Kelly, and that it has been alleged that Fred Deeming once corresponded with this lady, Mrs. Atkinson grew extremely pale. “I don’t read much in the way of newspapers,” she said. “I don’t know all that much about the murders in London. I know there was some talk of Mr. Drewn being Jack the Ripper, but I never knew about him corresponding with one of the victims.”

It was at this point that Mrs. Atkinson severed the interview, saying she needed to lie down.

Mrs. Fiddymont, however, is fully aware of Saucy Jacky’s crimes and the rumours of Fred Deeming being the notorious murderer. “I admit, I do find the more sordid stories fascinating. My dear Owen used to read to me about the atrocities in Whitechapel on a daily basis. They were so awful, yet so enthralling. To think, such a similarly revolting crime happened only next door to me, and that the man is thought to be the Ripper himself!”

Does Mrs. Fiddymont believe Deeming was the person responsible for the murders in Whitechapel?

“I don’t see why not. I wouldn’t have thought a man of such distinguished features could brutally murder his lovely wife and then bury her body under the fireplace; and yet he did. So I now think Mr. Drewn was more than capable of murdering those prostitutes. And Mr. Drewn was always well-dressed, usually in a top hat and long black coat, which is what the Ripper was supposed to have worn. In my view, Drewn was Jack the Ripper.”